The Pianist
by TurtlePornYolo
Summary: He's a man who lives to die everyday. Tom had spent his days bathing in sex, money, and fame; but pleasure tends to lose its charm, especially as an immortal vampire. How can Tom not take advantage of a second world war? He plays dress up in a Nazi uniform, and dances in human politics. But it's no longer fun and games when he finds his equal in a concentration camp, that "Harry."
1. Chapter 1

It was then I saw him across from me, on the other side, standing in a row. He was behind the fence, and I, free. But I wasn't really free, I was confined, and maybe playing a game. But it was real life to them, the stripped lines coating the shivering bodies. And I think I saw it, when he clenched his hands against the cold. I wondered how warm they were, if I could feel them, and what they would do curling against my neck. For a split second, I felt something other than cold. Something about it pushed me, and I wanted to play.

It was so easy for it to happen, and maybe a part of me was disappointed. But I had him under me, not in a way that I had hoped, but better. He was working for me, under my orders, and I had him where I wanted him to be. Listening, and watching. Then it happened, fingers fluttering,and caressing porcelain, passion filling the room. It was the sound of music, and to me it was sex. I was bending, sighing, brushing against the keys, and I couldn't stop. The music, it was enchanting, so enticing. And I felt the notes thrumming into my core. and my body couldn't keep up. But I kept going, and my fingers twisted and turned, flying in the air, tasting every key, reaching every note.

When I stopped, I wasn't sure if it was sense of insecurity that I felt, or smugness when I had realized his eyes was on me. I turned, matching his gaze. I think he realized what he was doing was not correct, but neither was my reaction to simply breath in silence was. I wasn't going to punish him, and I think he realized it too when his eyes danced with mine. But he turned away, dismissing whatever it was, and resumed to his work. It was then that I realized, all of it was too real for him. This was his life, and I was here making a mockery of it, foolishly playing games, and for what?


	2. Chapter 2

I feel it when I play, it is the only time that I ever can truly feel. And isn't is sad? And maybe pathetic? How can this instrument, not a human body, is able to make, to cause me to feel other than the damn cold? There is nothing in me, but blood that simply exists, that refuses to pump. But I did this, I caused this, and I chose this path.

The life of a vampire.

I've learned every lesson that is to be learned, felt whatever that should be felt, and that shouldn't, and now? I am nothing, and I thought I truly understood what it meant to have, and to be nothing. Foolish I was, so desperate, and yet so... I don't know.

A part of me wishes for the old me, a life of simplicity, but it wasn't. It was so bloody complicated, emotions, and everything unnecessary. But that, life, living, I think I liked it, and maybe I realized it too late. I had everything when I thought I had nothing, but now... what do I have other than myself, a body that cannot feel? And a mind that longs for everything that does not exist, but in the past. What do I want, I do not know, or perhaps, I do not know yet.

And here I had another young flesh, a maiden, the epitome of youth, a youth that can die. I had that power, and sometimes I cannot help but feel sorry for the mortal. How delicate they are, so innocent of what truly is real, and everything they thought was real, a lie. But they believe those lies, and I cannot help but feel pity, and so I allow myself to be gentle with them in death.

She was crying, begging for her life, they all do, they always do. "Do not cry," I would say. "For I am giving you the greatest gift of all, relieving you of all burdens that have yet to come, ma chére," and she looked at me with such confusion, but it did not ease her tears. I tried to feel something, and maybe I had expected it when I grazed her cheek, wetting my fingers of her tears.

Annoying.

My fingers tightened around her hair, and that silenced her cries. Beautiful. "I pray those are tears of joy, how terrible of an end would it be if they were anything else," but she tasted terribly dull, far from sweet. It always surprises me how easy it was to break them, and I couldn't stop myself from caressing the neck I snapped. Such A waste, and I thought her beauty matched the taste of her blood.

Those who have wronged life, living in the seven deadly sins, they have always tasted awfully sour. And those that are sweet, they are the pure, everything that I am not. I hate it, how they, them, those things, how they are able to make me feel a damn thing, taste something other than an empty breath. They are the only beings on this earth that provide whatever little amusement they can offer with their delightful anguish, and distasteful tears.

But him, I've seen his face, and I've seen it everywhere. That boy, the one with the eyes of emeralds. And I felt his blood before, but my eyes felt him for the first time. How can this be? For the first time, in a very long time, I felt young again. I was fearful, curious, resentful, but it was something, and that was all that mattered.

I feel him when he looks at me, and it is soft, a caress, but his gaze held no warmth. They only did this whenever I played the piano. I want to hurt him, but I want to truly feel him, and rip him apart. Those damn eyes, I hate how they look at me. I've seen many eyes before, many of those behind the fences that look to me in desperation, begging to be set free from hell, the prison they are trapped in. And all their eyes, sunken into their skulls, but his? That boy, when he looked at me it felt like I was the one behind the fence, like I was the one fucking begging to be free from this hell, and maybe I was, maybe I am.

I want to destroy him, I want to devour him, to taste his tears. He averted his gaze again, pretending that he had not been looking either. That foolish boy, how can he scrub the floors in front of me, and pretend while I sat here, feeling. His knees were wet, supple, and bruised against the floor, but I wanted him to be on his knees in front of me, begging for life. No, I wanted him to beg for death.

I will get it from him, soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for reading if you made it this far. I just want to say that this story will not run in a chronological manner yet. I feel it is important for me to provide focus on Tom's character as a vampire. It is important to understand that he has lived many centuries, therefore his personality is not as you would usually expect, especially in other fics. I do not want to rush into the chemistry between Tom and Harry, as that is not realistic.**

 **Tom is a vampire, he does not care for Hitler's ideology of what Germany should be, nor does he believe in the propaganda against jews. Regardless, Tom still has his "duties" as a commandment of a concentration camp, and must maintain his appearances. He cannot all of a sudden act his desire to Harry, whatever that "desire" may be to him.**

 **I will not go into details yet of what Tom's duties, as I will reveal it later through the story. I feel that this story will work backwards, starting from his encounter with Harry, dating to when he was turned into a vampire. rOr maybe it won't, who knows? Only then, will I return to a chronological kind of story telling. I know it may seem confusing, but I enjoy writing this way. I feel life is this way, and that it does not always move forward the way we wish it too, and I try to reflect my philosophy into my work, whether it is through fanfiction, poetry, essays, etc. I want to try something new, and I hope that you will enjoy reading this, and follow Tom's journey, and mine as a writer. Thank you.**

"I've seen you with a cigarette, and you don't really smoke it," he said, that Avery. A companion I suppose he is, or another beating flesh. I stopped in my tracks, flicking my gaze in his direction. It didn't matter what anyone called it.

"So you've been watching me," I hummed in return.

"Yes," he answered plainly. Curious he was, I underestimated his foolish tendencies. The alley reeked of urine, another dying city, and the pouring weather did not improve this. I approached him, observing the droplets that rolled against his skin, and I watched it travel from the veins of his temple, to his neck, an adam's apple that bobbed.

"You are nervous," I say, crushing the cigarette bud with my heel. It wasn't a question. His mouth opened, barely croaking a reply before I threw him against the bricked wall. He grunted, sliding to the ground. I watched him again, struggling to push himself from the wet rubble, and his eyes landed on mine. He stopped when I touched him, lifting him from above the ground. He struggled to breath, and his eyes grew frantic. "You think you're clever?" I breathed into his face, delving into his scent. There was sweat and alcohol, it was distasteful. I dropped him in disgust.

"I know what you are," he coughed, finally standing to my level. I was unsure if he was confident, or feigning it. I arched a brow, he had my full attention.

"And did you know I was watching you?" I questioned, dismissing his previous statement, but I was on guard. No one had known, and for a child barely hitting his twenties to have seen past the facade? Well, it wounded my pride.

"W-what?"

"Oh Avery, my dear Avery," it was unacceaptable, but the situation was amusing. I had found myself laughing, and unbothered to cover the smirk that twitched upon my lips. It was unsettling, and his eyes revealed his distraught.

Tom Riddle never laughed, not like this.

"Did it ever occur to you that I was the one following you?" I asked in delight. His eyes shifted uneasily, and breifly did I saw the reflection of light in them. He had looked at the end of the alleyway, where little light shone through between the buildings. It was beautiful, and his eyes were like the puddles on the streets. I wanted to rip them from their sockets, and sigh into the comforting warmth as they slipped past my fingers.

I almost missed his fingers twitching towards his pockets. Now was not the time for distractions. I lazily flicked my wrist and his wand cut past his cheek, rolling into a dark puddle. I closed my eyes, the scent of blood flooding into my senses, including his attempt in throwing a punch.

His cries became louder the more I twisted his wrist. It was annoying. "What did you expect playing tag, my dear friend?" I mocked, delicately brushing his wet hair from his eyes. His voice was lost in the rain, but his eyes spoke volumes. I heard it, I knew what Avery had wanted. I dropped his arm, he wouldn't try. He understood nothing could save him, but he was lost long before this encounter. He had given up on life. "Do you understand what you are asking?" I asked, searching into his eyes. Not even occlumency was neccesary.

"On the contraire, Tom, I do," he uttered softly under his voice. I hadn't heard that name in a long time, and then I remembered only him would call me that under the roof of Hogworts. Only he had the confidence to, and to hear it again, I respected his little bravery. I respected him. If it was anyone else, I would've killed them by now. Strange.

"What do you see in this? Is it beauty in the pale skin? In these eyes? Do you have a clue of what will become of you?" He shrunk from my voice, averting his gaze. I dug my nails into his jaw, and twisted them into my direction, "look at me, you fool!"

Avery tore away from my grip, and gazed fiercely into my eyes. They were like flames behind sockets, and oddly it burned. I was agitated, and maybe it was because I was seeing my past self within him. "Do you have any idea what it is to spend the rest of your life begging! Everyday I crawl in shit and those bastards dangle my life in their fucking hands! And for what? What do I have now? I still have nothing!" His voice was clear, but his eyes wavered. It wasn't the rain that coated his cheeks, but the little humanity he had left.

Avery wanted his freedom back. "There is no freedom in this life," I informed bluntly. He will not find it, not exactly what he is looking for.

"But it is more than I have now," and there was was silence. I pitied him, and maybe that was enough to cause me to give him what he desired, to rebirth him again. A slave to hunger, the cursed life of a vampire.

He was screaming, writhing on the ground as the colour of vermilion stained the puddle surrounding him. His neck was a grotesque sight. I licked the excess residue from my lips, looming over his figure.

"This is the choice I never had. You are forever in debt to me. Do not forget this, Avery."


	4. Chapter 4

What do I say? What is there to say? I am a lost for words, and it was nostalgic. That time, that day, it felt the same.

I was a young boy, but I was a man in those times, and I was at the ripe age to make a name for myself. But I had lost everything, there was no opportunity to become someone, my mother had done it for me.

They called her a witch, and I was the spawn of the devil. But I was human, and I knew nothing of the devil, nor had I ever laid witness to it. There was no reasoning with them, and perhaps they had grown bored of the country. Maybe this was their entertainment. Me.

What happened to my mother, I do not know. But the nights, it was something I wished I didn't knew. She told me she had dreams, I never asked what they were, and I still do not know what she had seen to have had driven her in such a state. But it was enough for the village to have suspicions of her, and soon there were accusations. She was a witch.

I didn't believe her, I couldn't. She was my mother, and what she saw was the end of her grip on reality. I do not know if there was anything I could've done to save her. And maybe I was the anchor to her reality, and when I accused her of madness, her eyes were blank.

She no longer recognized me as her son. It was not because I did not believe her, that she felt betrayed, but rather she was detached to this reality, as if she had gone somewhere else.

She became blind after that, no one knew why. She would mumble words I did not recognize, almost like she was speaking a foreign language. Nothing I said had gone through to her, or maybe she couldn't hear at all. I felt sorry for her, and perhaps that was one of the many reasons why they spared her. It was pity, hummanity's weakness.

I was driven into a state of loss, not for her, but for me. I had nothing but a mother that could not recognize her own son, and I was angry at the world. I did not deserve this. I had become ambitious, maybe too ambitious. I could not feel anymore, or I thought I didn't.

I had murdered with, or without gain for the sake of feeling again, and to prove to myself that money had little to do with death. God does not discriminate, and that was what I was doing. It did not matter who was next, but I felt at peace doing so. It was a feeling, and not exactly what I was looking for, but it was something.

But he was something else. At the time I did not know his name, but his face, it was something I could not forget. It was unnatural, and his strides were long, and it seemed as if his limbs were equally as long. What I was doing, I do not remember. But him, I remembered it too vividly, and it seemed like a dream.

I was on the ground, bruised, beaten, bleeding, and the moon was my only company. It was the brother that came to me, and I had allowed him. I killed his sister, his only family left. I couldn't remember when I had done it, or where. But I remembered her whimpers. For a moment I felt for him, but I did not know what to call it, this feeling. He then left me, hoping that I would die. It did not matter. What mattered was what would happen next.

There was a crack, and I rolled my head towards the source of the sound. I did not recognize this face. It was so casual the way this man approached me, the way he emerged from the trees, as if my dying body was nothing to him. And when he bent down towards me, it felt something so intimate like a lover.

I was entranced.

His face was smooth, but there was no colour, and his skin appeared to be silver. But he glowed under the moon, and it felt unreal. Too unreal. My voice felt dry, unable to utter but a croak. When his fingers crawled under my neck, cradling my head like a child, his fingers were cool. I shivered, but I felt oddly comfortable.

What was happening, it was an experience I still cannot comprehend. His fierce eyes dug into mine, and they were silver, speckled with green. They were curtained with lashes that curled, but he did not blink. It was unsettling, not human.

His chest did not rise like mine, and there was not a strand from his golden locks that seemed out of place. It was too perfect that it looked artificial.

Then he spoke to me, his cheek brushing against mine, his breath tickling my ear. He told me what I would become, the reason for this? I do not know. Perhaps he wanted to leave the impression that I had a choice.

I did not.

I had fallen into the entertainment of not only the village, but a different species from mine, a vampire. I watched him pull away, and he blinked. His lids were low enough that his rich lashes brushed against his young cheeks. Those grey eyes searched mine, and I felt invaded. It was like the soft bristles of a brush caressing a canvas, and it appeared that he found what he was looking for when his lips lifted.

His thumb brushed against the nape of my neck, and I had forgotten myself. I forgotten everything, and the possibility of everything became clear. I remember the shock I felt the more he talked, and although my expression didn't show it, he heard it, and pressed his free hand against my chest. His long fingers caged the wild beating of my heart, and if he wanted, he could've sank his nails between the cracks of my rib cage, crushing my heart into death.

It was sickening thinking about it. How gentle he was with me, but I saw through the disguise of his soft voice. He tore a life from me, and although it wasn't living, I was breathing. He ended mine and gave me an eternal death. My body and consciounce was not one, and they would fight, trying to dominate the other.

The hunger was constant, it would never change, but discipline was difficult to maintain. He never taught me that lesson, and I had to learn it on my own. Humans were food, and there was a time when I couldn't speak to one. I never had the chance to. They would always be dead after I was done with them.

The eroticism when his tongue lapped the blood from my neck was disturbing. The man nuzzled against the crook of my neck, breathing, maybe smelling? And I felt his lashes brushing against my skin, almost fluttering. I couldn't remember if I tried, but somewhere I think I allowed him to do as he pleased. I rolled my head to the side, and all I could do was stare at the open sky, tightening my grip on his arm, grunting my way through the pain. I wanted to stop breathing when he left me to the brink of death, and my vision became a haze. My arms were heavy, and even breathing became a chore. All I could do was watch him when he emerged from my neck, his hair brushing against my face. He was so close, and oddly he smelled like lavender. For a moment, everything stopped, and the specs of green on his irises fascinated me.

He observed me quietly, lifting his wrist to his lips. I recognized the sound of punctured flesh. What was he doing? His lips were painted red from blood, and I realized how androgynous he looked. He leaned into me, his cold breath tickling my cheeks. I watched his lashes lowering, gazing at my parted mouth. I was breathing heavily, and then I felt his warm lips pressing against mine. My blood had warmed his body, he wasn't this warm before. I was shocked, using whatever strength I had left to push him away from me.

But the taste of his mouth was mesmerizing. His lips moved against mine, and I was still, confused of what he was doing. But the more I felt him push against me, the more I found my lips parting. It was then I realized he was feeding me the blood from his wrist, and something in me snapped. My strength had returned with impeccable speed, and my fingers tugged on his scalp, briefly pulling him away. He laughed softly, looking at me with raised brows. It happened all so fast, and then I was tasting him again.

It was a hunger I had never felt before, and I brushed my tongue to every corner of his mouth, licking the blood between his teeth. I flipped him over, sinking my teeth into his bottom lip. The taste of his blood washed over my tongue, and a shiver racked beyond my spine. I couldn't stop myself. I pinned his body to the ground, digging my nails into his wrists, but there was no need, he did not try to stop me.

I was unsure of what had came over me. I was confused whether I was driven by the hunger of his blood, or if I was seduced by him. A string of saliva stretched when I pulled away, licking every trace of blood from his cupid's bow. Then I was gazing at his swollen lips, then to him. I saw it in his eyes that the situation amused him. He rolled his head to the side, unleashing his laughter. But it was like nothing I have ever heard of before. It was so natural like the chorus of singing birds.

I should've felt embarrassed, but I simply stared at him. I couldn't look away. His golden locks was a contrast with the deep greens of the grass and the leaves that surrounded him. I was curious to feel how soft his hair was. But I couldn't. His skin glowed under the moon, and I could see the veins under his long neck.

I realized why he was laughing the moment a surge of warmth tickled into my fingers. But it wasn't warmth, it was the feeling of when one's hands become too cold, the illusion of warmth strikes. I flew back, knocking the air from my lungs. The reason why he was laughing was because he was waiting for it to happen, the moment my mortality would quickly decay.

I was rolling on the grass. I couldn't control myself, it was too painful. I felt the blood in my body pass over every fibre of muscle. I wanted to die. In seconds, I was experiencing the decay of a human life all too quickly. I was burning.

When I opened my eyes again, the swaying of the branches underneath the dark sky felt all too different, and I was hypnotized. Everything had happened all to quickly for me to truly comprehend every emotion, every detail. But it didn't matter to me at that moment, all I could do was watch the trees sway. It was like watching a pendulum. The light of the moon peaking through the greens of the forest was a sight I could never forget. It was then I realized what I had become, what he made me to be. It was my first moon with the vision of a vampire, and I could not recall the moons before that night.

The world had changed as it appeared, but I was the one that changed. The trees, the grass, the moon, and the sky, they were all the same. But everything moved so slowly, or maybe I was the one moving all too quickly.

I felt fingers crawling along my temple and jaw. I then found myself laying grotesquely on the grass, but my eyes remained open. That basterd had cracked my neck before I could defend myself. It was my first lesson, vampires could not die of a natural death, and any attack was futile. Why he decided that to be my first lesson was unclear, but it felt like he was mocking me. He gave me both death and a life, and I could do nothing to end it if I wanted to. I had no reason to, but it annoyed me how he had this much control of how I would live next. This body would be forever. There was no disease that could touch this body, what use would it have? My mind was awake, but my body was a corpse. No disease would have use for it.

When I realized this it felt like nothing could stop me. Nothing.

His face invaded my vision, hovering above my face. That man stood above me, smiling with his hands behind his back. He spoke to me in a way that spoke of friendship, but in the back if my mind the sentiment felt false. Friends had no use. He was like me.

I saw myself in him. We only used people. I was unsure of what my use was to him, and maybe that was the point. He would always be a few steps ahead of me, and I hated it.

I would never forget him, even when he left me centuries ago. I would always remember the day he renewed my life, 1693. And there he was many years later on the newspaper. Gellert Grindelwald. I recognized those eyes. When I saw those eyes again not in the newspapers, I thought it was truly him. But it wasn't. It was someone else. The boy's eyes were entirely the shade of an emerald, but they had reminded me of the specs of green against gold. They looked so similar to Gellert's eyes.

Maybe that was why I hated it so much when that boy averted his gaze from me. They reminded me of when Gellert had abandoned me, betrayed me. Those eyes reminded me of the hatred I felt for him.

The revenge I craved.


End file.
